


Fancy a ride?

by Ginny_Potter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Grimmauld Place, M/M, OotP Era, Remus POV, What-If, some angst because well backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 19:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18156140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginny_Potter/pseuds/Ginny_Potter
Summary: It's Sirius' thirty-sixth birthday and he is stuck in Grimmauld Place. Remus finds a way to... fly his problems away.





	Fancy a ride?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
> The other day I was on Tumblr and I read a very depressing post about how Sirius never got to drive his motorbike again, after he had escaped from Azkaban. So I thought, yeah. What if he did?  
> Regarding Hagrid: I had to force things a bit. He comes back during the first Quidditch match of the season, which is usually played the first or the second weekend of November. November 2nd was a Friday in 1995, so, yeah, you get the chronology problem. But I guess that if Minerva McGonagall could teach at Hogwarts before being born, I can play with a couple of weeks. :P  
> I am not a native speaker so please point out mistakes to me.  
> Thank you in advance! <3  
> Lots of love.

November 2nd, 1995

On a scale from inventing hot chocolate to telling Severus Snape how to go past the Womping Willow, Remus’ latest idea was probably quite near “telling Severus Snape how to go past the Womping Willow”.

Hagrid was looking at him like he had lost his mind. And that was something, since half of Hagrid’s face looked like minced meat.

“Er, are yeh quite sure, Remus?”

He licked his lips, “Yes, thank you, Hagrid. I will… take care of it.”

The huge man was looking alternatively at him and at the other monstrous _thing_ at his right with a hesitant expression. Funny how that old barn on the outskirts of Hogsmeade reunited three entities that had the same effect on people: fear and suspect.

“And yeh know how to…?”

Remus looked in front of him at the lonely ray of sunshine that seeped in through the nailed shutters of the only window in the barn, stubbornly avoiding Hagrid’s inquiring eyes. He probably should have felt offended by the lack of confidence in his abilities, but, honestly, he just wanted Hagrid to go and stop asking too many questions. He had no intention to answer them. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Hagrid, he was good at heart and reliable. But he didn’t want to ask him to lie to anyone, much less Dumbledore. And, besides, Hagrid wasn’t famous to be good at keeping secrets.

“We go a way back.” He answered plainly, then checked his watch. He groaned inwardly. It was late. He finally turned towards Hagrid and forced himself to meet his black beetle eyes “I will bring it back the day after tomorrow. I promise.” He tried to sound reassuring.

Hagrid plunged his hands in the deep pockets of his greatcoat and blinked, “I probably don’ wanna know watcha scheming.” He mumbled, and something squeaked inside his furry coat.

Remus smiled, remembering how many times he had heard that sentence during his school years, when a younger version of the man in front of him, then just an apprentice of old Ogg, kept meeting the Marauders on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, “No, not really.”

 

*

 

“Sirius?”

Remus’ voice was barely louder than a whisper, careful not to wake Mrs Black, hidden behind her moth-eaten curtains. Despite their best efforts, the house still looked grim and depressing. He walked past the portrait and glimpsed at the kitchen at the bottom of the steps that went in the basement. The lights were off.

He climbed the imposing staircase, ignoring the decapitated heads of the house elves, and peeked in the master bedroom. Buckbeak was sleeping, cracked bones all around him: Sirius must have already fed him.

“Sirius?” he tried again, this time a bit louder, feeling safer.

He could hear a soft buzzing from upstairs. He frowned and reached the top floor. Sirius’ bedroom door was open but he wasn’t there. His bed was a messy tangle of sheets, a shapeless lump right in the middle. It was almost impossible to sleep in the same bed as Sirius: he curled on himself like a dog, his head on his forearms and his knees huddled up. The problem was that he _wasn’t_ a dog, and as much as Padfoot was quite big, he wasn’t a thirty-something bony human being six feet tall.

Remus pushed Regulus’ bedroom door. It was empty as well.

He started panicking.

“Sirius? Where are you?” he called, voice high and clear. _Let all the portraits start screaming_. He curled his hand around his wand.

The buzzing was more intense, it almost sounded like…

“Descendo.”

A hatch opened suddenly, and a considerable amount of debris and sawdust fell precisely on Remus’ head. He jumped aside to avoid a dark-wooden jack ladder that slid down to the floor. A moment after Sirius’ gaunt face looked down at him, faintly lit by the tip of his wand.

“What are you doing there?” Remus looked at him perplexed, lowering his arm. His heart was going back to a normal pace.

Unexpectedly, Sirius smiled. It was a real smile, one that Remus hadn’t seen since Harry had been there in the summer, one of those mischievous smiles that made Sirius’ face glow and his grey eyes fill up with silvery sparkles, one of those smiles that made Remus’ heart miss a beat and made Sirius look seventeen again.

“Come up.” He said, excitedly.

Remus tucked his wand in the pocket of his tattered robe and climbed the ladder with a huff. He was too old for that kind of things.

The attic was even more uninviting and gloomy than the rest of the house. The ceiling was low, half lopsided and half flat, and Remus had to crouch to avoid the uneven portion of it. An insane number of things – more than Remus currently owned, to be fair – were scattered all around, partially covered by dark cloths. There were old rocking chairs which were wobbling eerily, boxes, studded trunks that gave him the chills, old fashioned, self-standing suits and dresses that looked like hanged people and then, on his right, Sirius. He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of a mess of papers and…

“Is that a record player?”

As though someone had just pulled a switch, Remus heard music. So _that_ was the buzzing. Sirius’ smile widened, “Yes! I thought they had thrown it away after I left this wretched place. It’s the one you all gave me when I turned thirteen, remember?”

Remus remembered. He, Peter and James had ventured in Muggle London while their parents were busy buying school supplies for them a couple of days before their second year. They had snuck out the backdoor of the ice cream parlour in Diagon Alley and then run to the Leaky Cauldron under James’ cloak, right in Muggle London. Luckily, Charing Cross Road was the right place if you planned to buy a record player.

Sirius ran a hand through his tangled hair, “James’ parents bought me a new one shortly after but…” he shrugged, “I really thought they had thrown everything away.”

Remus looked around. It wasn’t just the record player. A handful of albums were piled near it, the custody of the one lazily turning in the device was on the top.

“Aladdin Sane.” Remus sat with some difficulty – damned bones – and examined it. It wasn’t one of his favourites, it had a sound that was too American for his taste, even if he secretly loved the avant-garde jazz style of the title track – _that piano_. And to be totally honest he had lingered more than once on The Prettiest Star for obvious nauseating reasons when he was seventeen and harbouring a hopeless crush on his best friend. And, well, Let’s Spend the Night Together was… let’s say full of memories. Alright. He was biased towards that album.

“Why didn’t they throw everything away?” Sirius was still mumbling, playing absent-mindedly with the squeaky cover of the turntable.

Remus glanced at him, but Sirius didn’t look back. They were thinking the same thing or, well, they were thinking about the same person: a small, slight fourteen-year-old boy hiding his big bother’s stuff in the hope he would be back. They never talked about Regulus. Remus wasn’t even sure Sirius had ever talked about what his death had meant to him with James.

_Time, in quaaludes and red wine / Demanding Billy Dolls / And other friends of mine_

“Why did you come up here?” Remus said conversationally, poking his knee with the corner of the album cover, “I thought this was Kreacher’s kingdom.”

Sirius shrugged, an easy smile back on his lips, but a deep crease still crossed his forehead, “I was bored.”

Of course, he was bored. That was such a _Sirius_ thing. He had always been the restless one, his mind spun more quickly than the others’, he lived on the verge of the abyss, all the time, ready to throw himself inside it, just to _do_ , just to _feel_. Remus sighed, evaluating the space around him with a quick glance. They hadn’t ventured into the attic during their summer housecleaning, since they suspected it full of dark artefacts, half functioning and unstable. So, of course Sirius had to go up there alone. When he was _bored_.

_You are not a victim / You just scream with boredom / You are not evicting time._

“Where were you, by the way?”

Remus shrugged, “Hogwarts.” He said.

Sirius face lit up, “Have you seen Harry? How is he? And that Umbridge…”

Remus waved a hand mid-hair with a frown, dismissing his questions, “No, just reporting to Dumbledore after last night,” he _had_ gone to Dumbledore, at first, it wasn’t a lie, “and please don’t mention that awful woman before dinner. I have a craving for curry, don’t want it spoiled. Come downstairs?”

Sirius seemed to deflate.

_Breaking up is hard, but keeping dark is hateful / I had so many dreams / I had so many breakthroughs / But you, my love, were kind, but love has left you dreamless_

Remus knew Sirius missed Harry – he missed _James_ , said a disapproving voice in his head that sounded a lot like Molly Weasley’s – and he felt warmth expanding in his chest when he understood that Sirius would have been happy, content, if _Remus_ had seen Harry in his stead. _We are the only things left_. He had told him once, a half-drunk bottle of bourbon in his hand and his eyes foggy. _We are the only things left of him._ He meant James. Always James. There was a huge James-shaped hole in Sirius’ soul and nothing and no one could ever fill it again. _Me and you_. _Harry needs us both_. Remus had wanted to tell him that _he_ was his godfather, that Harry needed _him_ , that Remus was just an old Professor and– (to wipe his conscience, _you never looked for him in twelve years why_ ) but Sirius had looked at him with those grey fiery eyes and Remus had just nodded. And that single nod was worth a vow.

“Sirius?” he urged. The Prettiest Star had started, and he really didn’t want to think about his pathetically smitten seventeen-year-old self.

He blinked, looked at the pile of dusty albums from the early Seventies, “Yeah. Curry. Let’s take this downstairs.”

They brought the turntable in the kitchen and Remus noticed that Sirius cradled it like a firstborn in his arms. As Sirius lit up the stove – he was starting to be quite good at housekeeping and cooking charms, but he didn’t dare telling him – Remus went through his albums. There weren’t many and they were all of Muggle bands and singers – mostly Bowie, some Dr. Feelgood, T.Rex, Bolan. He wondered if Sirius had managed to take most of his collection with him when he had escaped to the Potters or if Regulus had just managed to save some of them. Then, a colourful cover caught his eye.

“I knew it!” he exclaimed, victoriously, a record in his hand, as he turned towards Sirius with a devilish grin.

Sirius glanced at him, confused, “Wha…?” he blushed when he recognised the album – he actually _blushed_ , “It’s not mine.” He lied, quickly.

“Oh, yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not!”

Remus was having too much fun. Sirius was blushing. Remus didn’t remember Sirius blushing since– he had no idea, actually.

“I knew it was you who always sneaked ABBA in during the parties in the common room!”

“It wasn’t me!” Sirius leaped towards him, trying to grab the Waterloo LP from Remus’ hands.

Remus dived to his left and ran away, putting the table between them. Sirius lifted his wand.

“Oh no, you aren’t!” Remus embraced the album, resisting the non-verbal summoning spell that Sirius had just casted.

“Give it back!” Sirius flicked his wrist and Remus dodged to avoid a tickling spell. He grasped his own wand and lifted it.

They looked at each other. Remus was still smirking, and Sirius was still quite pink and was fighting the urge to grin back, just to keep a shred of dignity.

“Is it for the outfits?” Remus provoked, alluding at the flowery shirts and trousers on the cover. Merlin, the Seventies had been unforgiving.

“Tarantallegra!” Sirius shouted.

“Protego!”

Sirius’ hex exploded in red sparkles against Remus’ Shield Charm.

“Or did you have a crush on Björn Ulvaeus?”

At that point, Sirius smirked back, “Well, you even know the name, so maybe it was you who had a crush.”

Remus laughed and levitated a chair against which a purple jet of light right out of Sirius’ wand shattered.

“It’s your album, Black.” He moved swiftly to get near the precious record player where, he was sure, Sirius wouldn’t dare attack him.

But Sirius was faster. He actually jumped on the wooden table, taking him completely by surprise and literally threw himself against Remus. They both fell like sacks of potatoes, knocking over some chairs and bumping against a cupboard. Something shattered inside it when the back of Remus’ head collided against the hard wood. He groaned and struggled to prevent Sirius from grabbing the album. They rolled over and pulled at each other clothes and ended up half in the chimney, spilling a great deal of Floo Powder on the stone floor.

Finally, Sirius managed to pin Remus down and lifted the LP out of reach with his right arm, his wand in his left and Remus’ wrists bound up with a wordless spell. He was straddling him. Remus felt a rush of arousal. Oh no.

“I win.” Sirius declared, a grin on his face. He was flushed and debauched and covered in dust and soot, but his eyes were twinkling, and Remus’ heart beat faster when he spotted the Sirius he remembered, the Sirius he had known: haughty and cocky and handsome. He lifted his spell and at the same time he got up. Remus massaged his wrists.

“Doesn’t change that you have a Waterloo LP.” he sing-sang, grabbing Sirius’ hand when he offered to help him up.

Merlin, his bones. His head.

“’m too old for this.” He groaned, massaging his hip and nape at the same time.

“You have always been too old, Lupin.” Sirius teased, faking nonchalance but actually limping slightly towards the record player. He took out the record from its cover swiftly.

“We’re not listening to ABBA.” Remus warned, picking up his wand and waving it lazily. The chairs went back to their place.

“You love ABBA.”

“I really don’t.”

“Shut up, Moony.”

_Dance while the music still goes on / Don't think about tomorrow / Dance and forget our time is gone / Tonight's a night we borrow._

 

*

 

_almost_ November 3rd, 1995

Remus looked at his pocket watch. It was dark and the light of a tall lamppost seeped in through the curtains: almost midnight. He smiled, gently rocked by the steady tic-toc of the gears. It was his father’s watch: he had gifted him with it on his seventeenth birthday. As was common with wizarding clocks and watches, the hands were replaced by celestial objects. Ironically, his had two half-moons. Sirius had mocked him endlessly because of that until he had remarked that his had stars. _Oh-oh-oh, so original_. It was a gift of Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, _but nonetheless_. That same watch was in Remus’ cottage in Yorkshire. He hadn’t given it back, after Sirius had come home from Azkaban and Sirius hadn’t asked. He probably thought it had been lost, or stolen, or confiscated by the Ministry. _Next birthday_ , thought Remus, _next birthday I’ll give it back to him, so he can give it to Harry for his seventeenth_. He knew exactly where it was. It was in the same big box in which he kept most of his… previous life things: Lily’s long, happy letters, James’ scribbled notes, Peter’s quick messages with jam fingerprints on it. Photographs. Dozens of them. Most of them were incomplete: if Sirius had been on the side… well. He had had it pretty bad with the anger stage of grief. But the watch… he hadn’t been able to throw it away or to sell it to the highest bidder – not even when he had resorted to buy only canned beans for a month to survive. He had spent sad, sombre, pitiful nights sobbing on the engraved initials on the back.

The half-moon struck midnight. Remus slipped out of his bed, in Regulus’ old room, and covered barefoot the small distance that separated him from Sirius’ door. It was open. Sirius hated closed doors – he didn’t _before_ , but of course it was understandable, after what had happened to him. The first night he had slept there, in Grimmauld Place, Kreacher had tried to sneak in and Sirius had hexed the elf with a curse so powerful that the doorframe had literally exploded in a triumph of flakes of plaster and Kreacher had been thrown down two flights of stairs in the blast.

Remus entered the room carefully and sat on the edge of the bed. Sirius was completely under the covers, a lumpy mass at the centre of the bed, covered in blankets. He poked him where his shoulder was supposed to be, “Padfoot, wake up.”

Sirius growled and curled up even more at the centre of the bed.

“Sirius, wake up.” He repeated, pressing his whole palm against his back.

A “Fuck off, Moony.” came muffled from the poor excuse of man. Sirius tried to kick him from under the covers but missed.

Remus rolled his eyes and lifted his wand: “Evanesco.”

The blankets disappeared and Remus bit his lower lip not to smile at the crazy position in which Sirius was all tangled up. He had no idea how he managed not to be smothered by the weight of the covers.

“Merlin, I hate you.” Sirius growled, lifting his head and throwing him a dirty look through narrowed eyes, “What do you want?”

“You hate me now, but you just wait.” Remus got up and waved his wand absent-mindedly. The shutters of Sirius’ wardrobe opened wide and clothes paraded out like in a Disney movie. Remus remembered that when he was a child, he had loved The Sword in the Stone and he remembered that when Dumbledore had passed the threshold of the Lupins’ cottage, his eleven-year-old self had thought he was absolutely identical to Merlin. Well, the Disney one at least.

“Clothes on.” He ordered, trying not to smile at Sirius’ perplexed expression.

“I thought that since you woke me up at an ungodly hour, at least some naked shenanigans were in store for me.” Sirius was smiling his cocky – if a bit ruined by his sleepy state – smile.

Remus lifted a corner of his lips, ignoring his uneven heartbeat, “Never say never.” He joked, walking out of the door to give Sirius some privacy.

Sirius’ leather jacket was too big for his bony body. Remus tried not to focus too much on it – if he did, a voice in his head started screaming that all of this was a terrible idea, that it was stupid and that they weren’t eighteen anymore, that too many things had changed.

Sirius was still confused and mildly annoyed. He crossed his arms, “Are you into role-playing or something?” he muttered, looking at him sideways as he put on a shabby suede jacket that had made James turn considerably pale, when Remus had wore it the first time, after purchasing it in a charity shop near his and Sirius’ old apartment in Camden.

“You should learn the value of silence.” Remus answered and walked out of the door. Sirius followed him, his hands inside his pockets and his long hair tucked behind his ears.

“It’s too late for that.” He said with his haughty smile, heading to the stairs.

Remus grasped his arm: “Wrong way.” He said, mysteriously, before turning on himself, disapparating and dragging Sirius with him.

Thinking about it, it would have been better if he had warned Sirius beforehand. They landed on the hard concrete of the rooftop and Sirius collapsed against him, losing his balance. Remus hit the side of the chimney with his left shoulder and groaned – he was going to be so full of bruises by the end of the night and it wasn’t even a full moon.

“Moony, did you go completely nuts?!” Sirius snarled, struggling get back on his feet, looking around, “Where the fuck ar– ?” he stopped and his eyes popped out of their sockets.

Everything went suddenly very still. It was a damp night: some heavy, low clouds partly covered the sky, but it didn’t look like it was going to rain. The noises from Muggle London arrived faded and muffled by the wards. A faint breeze made Sirius’ long locks sway slightly. Remus smiled, following his gaze. Sirius’ motorbike was parked at the centre of the flat space at the top of Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

“That’s…”

“Yes.”

“But how did you…?”

Remus just shrugged.

Sirius looked at the motorbike, then at Remus, then again at the motorbike, finally at Remus, straight in his eyes. He looked speechless.

“Happy birthday, Padfoot.” Remus said softly.

And Sirius kissed him. Full on the mouth. Closed eyes and hands cradling his head and Remus froze. Sirius was kissing him. Before he could realise the enormity of what was happening, before he could decide to kiss him back, Sirius tilted his head and took a step back, licking his lips. Remus opened his mouth – the same mouth that Sirius Black had just kissed – and closed it. He felt dizzy. He leaned against the chimney. He blinked.

_After one fucking year and a half, and countless idiotic jokes, you are suddenly remembering that this was a thing, once?_

“Fa– ” his voice came out strangled, all wrong. Remus cleared his throat and tried again, “Fancy a ride?”

Sirius gaped. Remus could perceive his mind short-circuit.

He flushed.

“On the bike.” He specified, half-chocking on his own mortification.

_Jesus Christ_. They were in their _mid-thirties_.

“What?” Sirius seemed unable to connect, “But Dumbledore…”

Remus lifted his eyebrows incredulous. At that, Sirius seemed to regain his self-control.

“I never thought it would come the day in which you pushed me to break the rules, Moony.”

The moment had passed. Thank Merlin.

He smiled faintly, then walked absent-mindedly to the motorbike and caressed the leather saddle. Hagrid took good care of it.

“Bullshit.” He articulated and smiled amused at Sirius’ struck expression, “You always broke the rules for me.” He clarified, quietly.

Sirius didn’t comment. He caught up with him and touched the handlebars with his fingertips. Remus noticed that his hands were shaking.

“Last time I drove it…”

“I know.”

Sirius had driven that same bike to James and Lily’s when he had not found Peter in his hideout, that night, so many years before and so few at the same time. After discovering their bodies, he had left his precious Triumph to Hagrid and chased after Peter. A dark afternoon of November, it was exactly the third, Sirius’ twenty-second birthday and James and Lily’s funeral, Hagrid had told Remus that Sirius had said that he didn’t need it anymore: _Of course, that scum! He knew he was gonna blow up poor Pettigrew an’ a dozen Muggles!_ and he had sneezed in a napkin as big as a tablecloth. Remus had stayed silent, his mind completely numb, his eyes fixed on James and Lily’s names on the gravestone.

Sirius took a deep breath and curled his fingers on the left handle. The motorbike’s engine started, and Sirius beamed. Remus shook his head, amused: it recognised Sirius’ magic. He hopped on the bike with a swift, effortless movement and glanced at him, “Up here, Lupin.”

Remus let go a shaky breath. He remembered riding Sirius’ motorbike, he remembered the first time they had flown on that motorbike. Sirius was tipsy and Remus was addled and probably half-stoned – they had snogged, like, _a lot_ , pressed against the side wall of a Muggle pub after a The Cure show. It was possible that a couple of Muggles had seen them. Snogging. Flying on a motorbike. He took a breath and sat gingerly behind Sirius. He didn’t know where to put his hands. He felt eighteen again. He felt like that idiotic git who listened The Prettiest Star and blushed. And wanked.

_One day, though it might as well be someday / You and I will rise up all the way / All because of what you are / The prettiest star_

“Just hold me, Remus. I promise I won’t snog you again, but I don’t want you to fall from a hundred feet.” He sounded nervous.

Remus grabbed Sirius, his hands slipping under his leather jacket: he could feel the prominent bones of his hips, “You really don’t deserve this.” He mumbled against his shoulder.

He knew Sirius was smiling. He could _feel_ his smile, it made the hair at the back of his neck tingle.

“Probably not.”

And he sprinted.

Remus had forgotten how it was to fly on Sirius’ motorbike. He had forgotten the wind cutting his skin and Sirius’ long hair whipping his cheeks and his eyes watering and the hems of his jacket flapping and his ears whistling and the constant feeling of precipitating. It wasn’t like riding a broom. It wasn’t as steady and reliable and predictable as a broom was. It was crazy and loud and vibrant, and every twist and turn was unexpected. It was so distinctly _Sirius_ it hurt.

Sirius opened the throttle and they zoomed up and forward, towards the heavy clouds.

“Sirius, don’t you dare!”

But they had already broke through them and they were drenched, and Sirius was laughing, loud and from the heart and Remus felt his own heart missing several beats. He stopped mid-air, engine revving. The moon looked huge and Remus felt dizzy. The stars. Merlin, the _stars_. So bright. So near. He felt a lump in his throat. Sirius sprinted again, tyres brushing the soft clouds, cutting through them. They got drenched again, and again, and again. It was as though they were facing fog banks, but more concentrated, as though they were throwing themselves under waterfalls, but more gaseous. Merlin, it was odd.

“I hate you!” he screamed, top of his lungs, but he was laughing too, and Sirius swerved and sped up and Remus whooped or maybe it was Sirius or maybe it was the two of them. Remus felt ready to burst. He tightened his hold and pressed his forehead against Sirius’ shoulder-blade.

The engine was roaring and suddenly Sirius went into a dive. Remus yelled. Sirius howled.

Remus dared opening his eyes: everything was a blur but clearly London was closer and closer. He could spot the Tower Bridge and Blackfriars and the Thames looked like a fuzzy huge silvery snake. Then the buildings, the bridges, the monuments became bigger, and closer, and bigger, and closer. They were going to crash in the river.

“Sirius!” he shouted, but Sirius knew what he was doing. With a roar, the motorbike got back on track and its tyres just brushed delicately the water’s edge. Remus took a breath as Sirius zigzagged, avoiding the sparse boats. Remus prayed that they weren’t going to make the front page of the Daily Prophet. Or any Muggle newspaper’s.

As if reading his mind, as soon as they reached the London Bridge, Sirius directed the front of the motorbike up again and in a few seconds the city didn’t look more then a sparkling anthill.

Remus was trembling. Maybe it was for the adrenaline or the fact that he was soaked wet or maybe because his front was glued to Sirius’ back. Probably all those reasons.

They glided slowly towards Westminster, high enough that they would look like a weirdly shaped big bird if someone had looked up. The back of the motorbike swung right and left, in a jumbled dance and Remus chuckled. Sirius was having some fun. They dropped some more.

Sirius turned slightly towards him and Remus tilted his head back to look at him, “We could go back the Muggle way.”

Sirius’ cheeks were flushed, and he sported again that smile that made Remus’ stomach clench. His voice was throaty from all the shouting and whooping and it went directly to his groin. He groaned inwardly and shifted back, loosening his grip around Sirius’ hips.

“We don’t have helmets.” Remus blurted in a tiny voice, then caught a glimpse of a smirk.

“Then they will chase us.”

He seemed to look forward to it. Of course, he was.

_Dumbledore will have my head._

A second after, the tyres impacted with the asphalt of the Embankment.

“Wand ready, Moony. I have no idea how to get back to Islington.”

They had barely made it to the Strand when a patrol caught up with them. Remus swore and raised his wand, “Point me!” he yelled, and the wand showed them where the north was.

“Turn left!” he shouted right in Sirius’ ear – _revenge_ – as soon as they passed St Mary Le Strand.

Sirius barked a laugh and sped up jostling through the cars. The police car turned on the siren.

“Fuck. Right! Left to the church, left to the church. Turn left!”

“Again?!”

“Do as I fuckin say!”

They cut through Holborn and passed Chancery Lane station, the police car was still on their heels, its annoying piercing sound louder and louder.

“Turn right, Sirius!” Remus roared, when Sirius took a wrong turn and they almost crashed against a hedge.

“I cannot concentrate with this damn…” he pointed his wand blindly backwards and Remus dodged in time when he shouted “SILENCIO!” and he knew the spell had worked because the siren stopped howling and Sirius took a breath and opened the throttle fiercely.

“Great idea, Pads, now we don’t know how close they are.” Remus growled, trying to turn back to see where the police car was, whilst at the same time give directions.

They turned right again, speeding up Rosebery Avenue. The policemen were shouting at them to pull over through an old-fashioned megaphone.

Sirius was thrilled, Remus could physically feel his magic buzzing under his skin. When the patrol almost caught up with them, he said, low and focussed: “Look and learn, Moony.”

_I’m going to die._ Remus panicked and Sirius swerved right and invaded the opposite lane.

“You are on the wrong side of the road!” Remus shouted, or maybe whined, or maybe both and suddenly it seemed that every car in London was honking at them.

Sirius laughed manically: “I know!”

They were way over the speed limit, without a helmet, on the wrong side of the road. He so not wanted to end up in a Muggle prison for the rest of his life.

“We have to turn left as soon as possible!” he yelled.

And Sirius did.

He cut off three cars, a double decker and the police. Remus heard a loud honk, then a crash and hoped that nobody got hurt. They cut through a small park, destroying well-kept flowerbeds, and went up a narrow lane, zooming so close to the parked cars that Remus tightened his thighs against the side of the motorbike so not to risk losing a limb. Then, miraculously, he spotted Angel station.

“Left!” he shouted, just in time, and Sirius almost did a U-turn and Remus had to literally claw at Sirius’ side to avoid being unsaddled. He moaned, but he didn’t seem particularly hurt.

“Oh, now I know where I am!” Sirius exclaimed cheerfully a second later, a hint of breathless folly still there, as Grimmauld Place appeared on their left-hand side.

“You bet your arse.” Remus growled and Sirius smirked and used the mound at the centre of the square as a launching pad. Remus gasped, taken by surprise; they were soaring again. Sirius zigzagged mid air before gliding gently towards the flat portion of the roof of Number 12 that was lazily appearing in front of their eyes. They landed with a muffled thud.

When Remus’ feet met again the solid concrete, he felt like one of those sailors that set foot on earth after nine months around the globe. He wobbled slightly and leaned against the side of the chimney. Sirius hopped down the motorbike as though he had ridden it until the day before. His hair and clothes were a mess, but he had never looked so much as his old self as in that moment. He ran a hand through his long messy hair, an ecstatic smile on his lips, and Remus looked at him, really looked at him, because he wanted to remember that smile and that hair and those sharp cheekbones and that shaggy t-shirt when Sirius would be back to his brooding, broken self, in a few days, maybe in a few hours. Remus watched him, observed him, photographed him in his mind because he wanted so much to remember _this_ Sirius, the Sirius-that-could-have-been, and because he needed to spend the rest of his life knowing that _he_ had resuscitated him, if only for one night.

Then their eyes met, and Remus thought he would burst for everything he was feeling in that moment.

“Moony,” Sirius’ voice was soft and raspy at the same time. He hesitated.

Remus tilted his head back, against the side of the chimney and looked at him through half-lidded eyes, “Come here.” He mumbled, “Your awful driving skills killed me.”

Sirius moved forward until they were close – so, so close. He could feel Sirius’ hot, heavy breath against his lips. He lifted a hand, it was still shaking. Adrenaline, fear, desire, cold. He grasped Sirius long hair and pushed his head against him. Their mouths collided: teeth, tongues, lips. Remus kissed Sirius like a thirsty man lost in the desert, who finally managed to get to the oasis. He sucked his tongue and bit his lower lip until he could taste blood and Sirius moaned and ground against him and when they separated, they were both panting.

Then Sirius smiled his cocky smile and wiggled his eyebrows, his fingers slipping between Remus’ trousers and his cold skin, “Fancy a ride?”

Remus punched his shoulder so hard Sirius yelped and tumbled aside, laughing. He kept leaning against the wall, he wasn’t sure his legs could do their job, “You are so fucking lame, Black.”

Sirius glanced at him and dark locks fell on his face like shadows, “You love me.” He said, half-joking, but his voice quivered.

_I do_. Remus thought. _I really fucking do_.

“Let’s get back in.” he said instead, “I’m freezing.”

Sirius threw a longing look at his motorbike, as the first lights of the dawn hit its shiny tank but didn’t say anything. He knew she wouldn’t be there the day after. He reached out towards Remus and grasped his forearm, but before they started turning to disapparate, Sirius looked him in the eye and whispered, his voice sincere, deep and thick like honey, “Thank you.”

Remus’ heart missed a beat. He nodded, and, once more, that single nod was worth a vow.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own anything.
> 
> Songs listed:  
> Time, The Prettiest Star by David Bowie.  
> Dance by ABBA.


End file.
